one hand in my pocket

6 11 2003

if i had a too-much-coffee song, i’d sing it.
i’m sure that’s my problem. i just got off the phone telling my bestest boy friend (who’s trying to become a lawyer, for crying out loud, and i didn’t even remember to hold it against him) all about why he should read foucault.
who the hell am i? why do i want to subject anyone to translations of french philosophical meanderings? even by cute little bald, sarcastic dudes…they’re still FRENCH, after all. ๐Ÿ™‚
(is it mean to mock the french? it seems somehow pc-clean–you can’t mock anybody else in america anymore. just the canadians, and, by proxy (or maybe it’s the other way) the french).
but i hate foucault. or, at least, i did before i’d ever read him. i hated him because allen liked him, anyway. and i still hate derrida, but that’s only mostly on allen’s behalf. also it’s because he’s so desperately pleased with himself and his weird-ass ways of looking at the world that he doesn’t feel the need to explain anything he says. which would be fine for HIM, but isn’t so fine when i’m supposed to read him and get something useful from the experience.

why am i talking about school? oh, yeah, because it’s all i know.

i can talk about leaves. they’re mostly down now. the land surrounding us is a sea of pale yellow under bare, reaching trees. the sky broods greyly and the puddled palor beneath practices for snow. except for the one tree right outside my window. it’s a locust tree, or something (xaq sed), but it’s so vibrant–ridiculously so against the grey darkness–that it seems to glow, and i keep wanting to call it an orange tree, even ‘though it certainly isn’t, because it just screams like citrus.

words that make sense have left me. are you noticing this? “screams like citrus?”

i have a quote from the cover of my classmate’s notebook… it was printed there. in china. i don’t know who said it, but i know who it reminds me of:

“Ideas are like stars. We never reach them, but, like mariners, we chart our course by them”

now, if only i had time to HAVE a few, instead of just trying desperately to be fast enough at recording and classifying everyone else’s quick before it’s time to churn out end-of-the-semester papers that prove (or pretend to) that i’ve learned everything i’m supposed to be learning this semester (which i can’t possibly, b/c learning involves reflection, and application, and THINKING, and, as i noted above, i don’t have time to think).

i DO have time to miss everybody, though, b/c i can still multitask well enough to do that while i’m doing a craptastic and fuzzy-headed job of everything else.

i feel, here, in cael’s beloved and ridiculous terminology, about as dumb as a bag of wet mice. and, in bono’s as necessary as a handi-cam to a fish. but tyger’s folks are coming up this weekend, and amyv is coming over, and between them and all of their fascinating opinions, i’m sure i’ll at least be able to overhear, from my cluttered workstation, some conversations about really interesting, different things.

i’m thinking that we should have visiting weekends like that. like rich people in the 20s used to invite handfuls of interesting people out to their country-homes (at least, according to fitzgerald, they did), to sip lemonade and have outings and fascinating conversations. if we have several guests at once, we can have more guests and still spend other weekends working, AND have conversations about something OTHER than rhetoric!

what the hell IS rhetoric, anyway? the longer i’m here, the less i know.

mr. mike phillips…or, by now, i’m sure, dr.mike phillips, i repent for every time i asked you in some smart-ass annoying voice what the hell one DID when one majored in rhetoric. now i know just how much you must have wanted to kick me. no wonder you haven’t kept in touch. do you know the answer yet? because i would so terribly like to know…

how do i know i’m getting old? it’s 8:12 and i feel like i’m up past midnight just b/c it’s been dark forever and i’m wasting time online writing this and chatting w/pedacter. oh, and b/c k’s 2nd son is over a year old already, and i still remember her like juliet, young and dumb and so, so sharp beside me, and sometimes i still think it’s one of her blonde hairs i find clinging to my coat-felt or tangled in the laces of a shoe.




5 responses

6 11 2003

random associated comments
On the visiting weekend can we play scrabble? or even better boggle? i like words! ๐Ÿ™‚
I love you!
I liked the idea quote. you are full of ideas!
oh and as long as you don’t mock me to much cause i have a frenchy last name now….
citrus can be loud i think.

6 11 2003

Re: random associated comments
it’s not a french-y name. it’s a steve-y name. ๐Ÿ™‚
and i appreciate your appreciation for my citrus, and your faith in my invisible ideas. c’mon up and boggle me, babee.

6 11 2003

The French writers are all the same. We had to read Foucault, Baudrillard, Durkheim, and Bordieu for theory class. They all use ridiculously long sentences with a ridiculous number of dependent clauses. For every sentence I would highlight the independent clauses and see if that basic idea made sense. Eesh, good luck.

6 11 2003

it’s because it’s impossible to express an idea simply in french. all the nouny words in english are adjectives in french, and vice-versa. and then you have to translate it, and it gets worse. because you have to add extra words to make sense out of all of those re-part-of-speech-ings. if they made compounds like the germans, they could at least say “re-part-of-speech-ing” in a word. or if they were creative like me….

6 11 2003

many kisses
You certainly came to call me home today. Thanks, luv… I suppose I needed it out here lost between the Rule of Law and the Rule of Beauty.
You’re beautiful, as always. And you’ve made me wish, yet again, that I was more a part of your story(ies).

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